


Mindful

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 13:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18874336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Arthur takes the stories of Pelagius' experiences to heart, and Lancelot wonders.





	Mindful

**Author's Note:**

> Set midway through the knight's service in Britain.

Arthur’s knees and back ached, but he remained sat where he was, his backside solidly on the hard stone floor of his quarters, his hands resting on the worn fabric that covered his legs.

It was late, but he wasn’t sleeping. Reports and numbers and his knights and their injuries and _we’re running low on grain again, Commander, and I’m not sure how the men will take it_ ran through his mind at an alarming rate, and after tossing and turning for several candlemarks, he’d risen and tried to read.

When that had failed, he’d drunk wine.

That had also done nothing but made him slightly drunk, which, in a strange point A to point F fashion, had gotten him where he currently was, seated on the floor, his brazier burning softly, the strange sound of heated coal sizzling something he could focus on in order to control his thoughts.

He remembered Pelagius telling him about a man that had come to Rome all the way from India, a trader that had brought silks and spices to Arthur’s family home – Arthur’s grandfather had griped repeatedly about how expensive it was to keep Arthur’s grandmother happy – and Pelagius had also told him about the trader’s life and the place he'd come from.

_Different men with interesting beliefs, Artorius. But smart, and well versed on the ways to make men happy and as content as possible in times of great strife._

He was counting his breaths in between listening to the sounds of coal and the lack of shouting coming from the courtyard – that in and of itself was a miracle – when his reverie was shattered by the snick of his door opening and shutting, the particular _tink_ of steel touching the floor coming along with it.

_Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven._

“I’m surprised, Arthur,” Lancelot’s voice was low and directly to Arthur’s left. “It’s way past your time for sleep.” The other man was suddenly seated in Arthur’s space, kneeling next to him, leather and horse and unshaven Sarmatian and Lancelot’s … _Lancelot_ wafting into Arthur’s nose. He sighed.

“It’s not like I’m not trying.”

Arthur could almost hear Lancelot’s eyebrow cock. “And yet you’re not in bed, nor undressed, nor quiet with the light out.” He felt at Arthur’s forehead, and Arthur jerked away from him. “Are you sick?”

“Sick of you,” Arthur murmured under his breath, and Lancelot’s laugh made his spine ripple in a pleasant and annoying way. “What do you want, lieutenant?” He turned to face the other man, and a look of worry and exhaustion passed over Lancelot’s mobile face as he met Arthur’s brown, fatigued gaze.

The look slid just as quickly off the other man’s face as it had appeared there. “Distraction,” he smirked. “Not sleeping, myself.”

“Surely there are plenty of ladies in the tavern that could help you with that,” Arthur answered tetchily, and stood, stretching, his back popping and his knees still aching like fire burned in their joints. “I can barely hold a conversation at this point, much less keep you distracted enough to allow either one of us to fall asleep.”

Lancelot stood with him and faced him, toe to toe. His longish hair was wet and slicked away from his face, and Arthur again realized just how young he was. And how he’d do anything to keep these men – especially this man – under his command alive to see their freedom.

So, so young.

“Arthur, really. All you have to do is open your mouth sometimes,” Lancelot shot at him, and Arthur tried to stifle the groan that came. _Double entendre, thy name is Lancelot._ “And that sound. You sure you’re not ready for bed?”

The long fingered hand that rested at the nape of his neck was chilled, and Arthur shivered and allowed a small smile to cross his face. “I’m thinking you’re the one that wants to go to bed.” He picked up the hand from where it lay across his shoulders and pressed a kiss to the palm, his eyes watching Lancelot’s face from under his smudgy lashes. Lancelot grinned, but Arthur could see the fire in his eyes – that fire always reflected by his own.

Arthur dropped the other man’s hand and slumped to his bed. “I was getting somewhat sleepy, but then I was rudely interrupted.” He yawned – at last! – and slipped under his rumpled furs, the brazier banking nicely as Lancelot followed him to the curtained alcove that served as his private area. Arthur snorted a laugh at that thought; nothing was private around Lancelot. And that was mostly how he wanted it – but he also found himself beginning to worry about favoring his lieutenant, and how that would appear to the others. He loved them all; he just loved this one a bit more, and oh heavenly God, wasn’t that unfair and horrid of him?

Lancelot’s boots came off with a loud crash against the edge of brazier stand, and Arthur bolted upright as he watched the thing teetering – he breathed slowly as it managed to stop rocking and didn’t fall to the floor in a heap of burning coals and oil.

  
“Lancelot,” he said through his teeth, but the other man sat on the bed, skinned his tunic off, and kissed him to shut him up.

*

About a candlemark before the crowing of the dawn rooster Arthur’s eyes sleepily opened, and turning, found Lancelot watching him, hair rumpled and crease marks on the other man’s face from where Arthur’s bed cushions had held his head.

“Hmmm?” he said and Lancelot’s eyes squinted in that way they did when the other man was thinking or about to pounce on Arthur with some sort of argument Arthur knew he’d lose. The room was warm still but Arthur shivered and stuck his feet under Lancelot’s legs. The other man’s hand came distractedly to Arthur’s arm.

“What were you doing, earlier?”

“What earlier? When?” Arthur was still sleep muddled, and he wanted to punch Lancelot for waking him. Punch him and then fuck him senseless; perhaps then the other man would let him rest. He started to smile at his thoughts; but then the ever-present worry that had kept him awake in the first place killed the motion of his mouth. The garrison was going to drive him into an early grave if the Woads didn’t first.

“When I came in and found you sitting on the floor.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, and yawned. He touched Lancelot’s springy hair and pushed it away from his forehead. “Counting my breath,” he answered.

“Why?”

“Something I learned from Pelagius that he learned from a trader that would come to the Palatine when I was boy,” Arthur answered. “He was from India. My grandmother loved silks,” he added when Lancelot looked befuddled. He jerked his arm away when Lancelot slapped his shoulder. “Ow,” he said, pointedly rubbing his skin.

The sun was beginning to creep along the edges of the horizon, and Arthur raised both eyebrows as Lancelot twisted his lips in thought. “Does it help?” Lancelot finally asked.

“Sometimes,” Arthur replied, shrugging, which was awkward lying on his side. He scrubbed a hand over his face – he’d have to shave before drills this morning – and turned to his back. “Anything to stop my thoughts.”

He realized he’d been a little too honest perhaps when Lancelot stiffened beside him. “I’m sorry you’re so beleaguered, Arthur,” the other man said a bit tightly, but his face was relaxed when Arthur canted his head to look at him. Lancelot touched Arthur’s cheek and Arthur allowed his eyes to close. The fucking rooster would crow soon, and he’d have to rise, and do what he’d done yesterday all over again. Some days it was too much to even contem-

“I _am_ sorry,” Lancelot amended; his voice as soft as Arthur thought he’d ever heard it. He turned to his back and Arthur wondered again at the strength in that whipcord slender body. The other man was a marvel, and Arthur loved him, and that was partly what was causing the sleeplessness in the first place. But he’d never tell Lancelot that particular truth, because then he’d lose _this_ and then he’d never sleep again.

“I am sorry, and I feel the same most of the time,” Lancelot spoke again, and Arthur goggled, because the other man didn’t speak much of his feelings, unless he’d been drinking or fucking or both. “I just wondered if it actually worked. I can’t drink myself to oblivion every night.” He snorted a dry laugh, and Arthur’s heart beat dully at the pain in those words. They were all the same.

He hated it. He knew he himself was the cause of some of Lancelot’s indecision and worry and drinking and _Rome_ was the reason and the almost lifelong servitude to a cause not the other man’s own and Arthur squeezed his face with his hands, even when Lancelot tried to take one of them away from his skin.

The rooster called.

Arthur laughed, and Lancelot rolled his eyes.

“You can try it tonight,” Arthur suggested as he forced himself from the nest that was his sanctuary, with this man that he loved and feared for and worried about and hated himself and his favoritism for.

“I’m hoping tonight I don’t feel the need to.”

Arthur smiled at him, at his heartbreaking beauty and strength and everything that was Lancelot that meant anything to Arthur. Lancelot smiled back, and although it was small, it was Lancelot, and Arthur almost wept for his fortune and his hatred for himself and what Rome was – and he, by proxy – taking from Lancelot.

And the others. Don’t forget that.

They dressed in silence until Jols brought Arthur’s breakfast (and by extension, Lancelot’s), and they ate and strapped on their weapons and made ready to leave Arthur’s quarters. Lancelot didn’t care if anyone saw him leaving; he was Arthur’s lieutenant, and as he’d said to Arthur previously, he had the right to _be annoying my commanding officer at any time of day or night._

The others had to know, however.

Arthur took his father’s ancient iron cross off its hook from the wall, and placed it over his head, tucking it under his tunic. Lancelot touched his shoulder, and he turned, his now shaven face slightly red from the cold water and razor he’d used.

“I will ask the gods – if any listen to me any more,” Lancelot snorted, but Arthur could tell from the sincerity of the tone he meant it, “that neither you nor I will have to count our breaths in order to sleep tonight. Or the next. They owe us that much.” He forced a tight smile and opened Arthur’s door, his twin swords rising over his head, shadow falling from them across his angled, sharp face. The longish hair was back to flopping over his eyes. “They owe us more that that, actually,” he added, and Arthur thought any man or enemy they ran into that day would suffer mightily at the hands of this particular knight.

“Aye, lieutenant,” Arthur answered, meaning it, but he immediately realized he’d have to do more than count his breaths that coming night for the blasphemous statement he’d just agreed to.

~

**Author's Note:**

> I hate summaries. Sorry for the shitty one.
> 
> I did a bit of research on India during this time and would it be possible or probable that Arthur might know about the practice of mindfulness and other religions. All signs point to possibly yes, so let's go with it. I truly tried to sound respectful and character appropriate also. It's hard not to apply modern thinking to something that you love that might not be totally appropriate for "ancient" characters, so forgive me for that.
> 
> Feedback is love. Thank you for taking the time to read/read and comment. xo


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